


The Doll of Privet Drive

by aroundloafofbread



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Dolls, F/M, Halloween, Horror, It's a read and discover kind of thing, M/M, Mystery, Not too many tags this time, Spooky, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2019-08-09 19:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroundloafofbread/pseuds/aroundloafofbread
Summary: In Voldemort-ruled-Britain, Hermione has gone missing in a remote area of Surrey named Privet Drive. Ron has taken it upon himself to investigate. There, he meets someone unexpected. He hopes this green-eyed, black-haired man will help him find Hermione.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I should be working on Lessons for Summoning (next chapter to come out in November) but here I am writing Halloween-inspired stuff. I'm a dickwad but still I was given a challenge by a friend and this was unexpectedly fun to write. It became a lot darker than I initially thought it would be.

It was the night of the third Sunday of the month of July, after a party for Uncle Vernon's client, when little Harry was sent out again to throw the rubbish.

“Remember,” Aunt Petunia said very sternly, “Take it down to the next street. The rubbish collector only comes on Tuesdays and we don't want to be found throwing this out now, you hear me?”

“Yes Aunt Petunia.” Harry replied.

“Off you go then.”

Harry stumbled out of the house and strode across the street as quickly as he could on his skinny, short legs. He turned round the bend towards the next row of houses. He could see, right down at the end, was the dreadfully untidy house of Mr. Kerridge. He didn't like the man at all. Last winter Mr. Kerridge had walked by Number 4 Privet Drive and gave Harry a look that made him feel very uncomfortable. It made him feel small, and even weaker than he already was. It made him feel like he was going to be eaten.

Yes, Harry decided. He would put the rubbish in Mr. Kerridge's garden. Hardly anyone would know the difference given the truck-sized dump in the middle of the garden.

Harry looked left and right, up and down, front and back as he sneaked over to the garden and silently left the rubbish bags on the ground. Because he was being particularly observant, he saw something starkly white and black sticking out from amongst the heap of yellowed old clothes and blankets next to him. Being naturally curious, despite the number of beatings he was given for it, Harry couldn't help but reach out towards the thing.

He tugged at one corner and the thing (whatever it was) slid smoothly out from the heap.

A bang from near the front door startled Harry, and in a right state of panic, fearing he had been seen, Harry ran all the way back home.

It was only after he was lying down, trying to catch a breath in his little cot in his cupboard that he realised his hand was still clutching tightly onto whatever he picked up from the heap.

He took a deep breath before sitting up again and looking more closely at what he held.

It was a doll, with a body of rather hard and cold material, and dressed in a simple black cloth.

A doll with a very odd face that was almost lifelike. Yes, the face was very odd indeed! It had no nose, the eyes were red and there was no hair on the top of its head. If Aunt Petunia had her way, Harry's mop of hair would be done away with and he'd had a smooth round head like this doll. 

It was, in other words, rather ugly.

Harry loved it.

It was unwanted, just like he was. Left in a heap of old clothes (for Harry, he was swallowed up in Dudley's old clothes), ugly (just like Uncle Vernon always said to Harry), and pale (like Harry was, all day long in his cupboard). And because it was very nearly Harry's tenth birthday, he felt like he had been given a great gift. 

The doll was a good size, fitting nicely into his arms. He would cuddle it to sleep.

He had to be very careful that his cousin Dudley didn't see it, or he would get his grubby hands on it. And Harry would lose the doll.

The boy peered at the doll in his arms, out of his huge glasses framing his skinny face.

“Hello. My name is Harry Potter.” He said softly.

Harry quickly rubbed his eyes. He must have been mistaken, but he thought he saw a flash in the doll's red eyes.

“I must give you a name. Everyone has a name. Even though I was called 'freak' and 'boy' before I went to school and found out I was 'Harry'.”

He looked at the doll for longer. It was definitely a male, Harry decided. He didn't know what name to give it. The doll, though dressed simply, looked grand and serious. There was something remarkable about the doll that made a name like Charles or Peter or John unworthy of him. 

“I'll think about it.” Harry said finally, yawning as he felt the tiredness of chores the whole day descend upon his small body. He lay down in his cot once more, his arms wounding tight around the doll as he pulled at the lamp string, bathing his little cupboard in darkness.

“Good night, doll.”

The boy's breathing slowed and he eventually fell asleep

In the gloomy darkness, a soft hiss came. 

_“Good night. Harry Potter.”_


	2. The Wretched and the Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a timeskip between this and the prologue for... reasons. And damn it got dark fast. It'll let up a bit in the next chapter.
> 
> (Not vetted nor spellchecked. I wished I had a beta but for now, you'll have to deal with this subpar work.)

_Britain, 1999._

Ron swallowed heavily as he packed his bags. The weather outside was foreboding; dark and downcast, clouds pregnant and roiling, threatening of a thunderstorm.

It was a month since he received any message from Hermione. Everyone told him he was paranoid. That the mail system was terrible ever since the ministry rolled out a far more strict monitoring and restriction of not just owl post but also muggle mail. Ron knew better.

Actually, everything had gone to shit when You-Know-Who killed Dumbledore and took over the ministry five years ago. They had been in the middle of their third year, and Hermione was pulled out of Hogwarts quickly and sent to Beauxbatons in France, her parents following closely behind as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters began to indiscriminately attack muggles. 

Ron stayed in Britain, home-schooled and practically locked up in his room. Later when the ministry fell and the dark forces moved in to round up all rebels, Ron was placed back at Hogwarts with what remained of his siblings. At Hogwarts, he was nothing more than a social pariah. A blood traitor. It made him only a little less of a target than the muggleborns, who worked as indentured servants, alongside the house elves. Though perhaps, it was sometimes worse, because he stood out as a Weasley. 

Bill was maimed in one of the earlier Death Eater raids by the scum of a werewolf, Fenrir Greyback, and succumbed to his injuries two days after at St. Mungos. 

Much later in the war, Charlie escaped to Romania with an heavily injured Percy on his parents' orders, albeit very reluctantly. The rest of the Weasley children were hiding and given instructions to follow shortly after, but a raid caught them by surprise. Fred died bravely in a fight while George was forced screaming and kicking back to the Hogwarts' dungeons, from where he eventually escaped and died in a duel with the Carrows – twin Death Eaters – taking the brother with him. The sister went mad with grief and very nearly Crucio-ed both Ron and Ginny to death in revenge. 

He never saw his parents again.

Ron had very nearly given up all hope if it wasn't for the need to look after his sister. She'd had the worst of it, being not just rebellious as all other Weasleys were, but also very pretty. He had to place himself in the line of fire many times to give her a chance to run, but he was always afraid of all the other times when he wasn't there to help her. She bore it very well but he knew the truth – the Weasley family was all but broken.

Through all these, Ron always looked forward to mail from Hermione. It would come through to a collection point the muggles called a 'post office'. He was only able to get them by bribing half-bloods with money he stole from the purebloods, when they were sent out on errands to infiltrate the muggle world. Because they were so infrequent, Ron and Hermione made up for it with extremely long letters. 

France refused to act, despite Hermione's hard work writing to the minister and meeting any figure of authority she could to persuade them of the dangers at their borders. She however, brought good news when she established contact with Charlie and Percy at Romania. They had a small rebel force hidden somewhere in Europe who were working to find a way to defeat You-Know-Who. Ron never cared much for it. He had other battles to fight. Even now he was near penniless, working as an assistant at a run-down shop selling trinkets at Knockturn Alley. He wasn't even allowed to carry a wand at work, being a 'low-risk' blood traitor. He worked hard at his job regardless. It was the only way he could feed himself and Ginny, the only means he had to prevent her from using more drastic means to survive. Of course, the other good thing about working was having a lot more freedom to exchange muggle letters with Hermione.

Hermione, however, had gone on to work in the French ministry after graduation, where she claimed in her letter that some useful information had made its way to her.

And then, just half a year ago, Hermione appeared at the doorstep of his rickety apartment, her eyes brimming with excitement and tears. 

Ron had never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Ron!” She said, tears spilling down her face as she jumped into his embrace.

He was speechless for a second before his wits caught up, honed by years of hiding and protecting his back at Hogwarts. 

He pulled her quickly into his apartment and shut the door, finger held against her lips as his other hand held onto his wand, breathing heavily. 

“What-” Hermione began.

“Shhh!” Ron whispered furiously. 

He couldn't hear anything beyond his apartment. For a long while, they stood there, breathing and waiting.

Slowly the tension drained from his body, though it never left.

“No one followed you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course not, Ron! I've been very careful since I arrived.”

“About that! Just what are you thinking, coming back to Britain! You know what it's like here!”

Hermione shook her head of bushy hair. 

“I had to. I've had some really important information.”

“Really?” Ron said doubtfully. “What's so important that you had to come here yourself?”

Hermione smiled, the excitement from before returning to her face. She pulled Ron to sit beside her on his squashy, peeling couch. 

“It's about the... you know. The _mystery_.”

“What mystery?”

“There aren't many mysteries as thoroughly speculated as this one, Ron. But alas, times have changed and I dare not say it now. Wait, I shall write it down.”

Hermione pulled out a piece of parchment from her pocket and quickly wrote on it with a muggle pencil. She then turned it over and placed it on the small coffee table. Ron leaned forward eagerly.

“HARR –” Ron almost shouted when he saw the words on the parchment before a hand clamped down on his mouth strongly.

“Shut up! You idiot! The British ministry has started putting traces on some names and I'm not about to risk it if there's one on his.”

“Sorry!” Ron said, out-of-breath after Hermione let go of him. “I was just taken by surprise, is all. It's been such a long time since I've seen that name. Ever since I heard Dum – our long-bearded first headmaster tell my parents that he lost well... _him_.”

“Well you know there have been some muggle areas that are completely impenetrable since the start of the war?” 

“Yea?”

“About two months ago, I received an anonymous letter responding to my campaigns for France to take action. The letter claim that _he_ didn't die on that fateful night with his parents as we were all later led to believe. The person claimed that the earlier version of the textbooks were right, and _he really had survived_. But he died later from an accident when he was young boy.”

Ron frowned. He didn't see how it added up.

“What sort of accident? If it was an accident, it would have been big news. I mean, he _was_ supposed to be the... 'saviour'...”

“Exactly.” Hermione said. “I needed to know more. So much more. What sort of accident happened? Why wasn't it announced in the papers? Why were we later told something else? How did You-Know-Who even _come back_?”

“I'd rather know how to make sure that he _never_ comes back.” Ron added darkly. 

“That's what Charlie's working on. On my side, I did a little bit of tracing to find the person who sent the letter.”

“A little bit of tracing?” Ron asked, smirking.

“Hush! It may have been a bit less-than-legal I admit. What's important is I found the sender – a squib named Mrs. Figg.”

“Mrs. _Figg_? That doesn't sound very French to me.”

“She's not, she's from Britain, and left for France early on when she failed in her duties watching over him. Don't you see, Ron? She was _there_! She was there when he was growing up and she was there when the accident happened.” Hermione pulled out her customary flask, taking a long draw of water from it. The cap only responded to her particular brand of magic. She'd learned to be vigilant early on.

Ron chewed on his bottom lip. “So you managed to find out about it?”

“Oh I found out plenty. I was very angry with Mrs. Figg. Seems from her description that he was suffering some sort of domestic abuse and she had done nothing about it. I'd even seen her memories. He was too small, too skinny for his age. Big, round, broken glasses on his face, clothes too big for his body and a perpetual faraway look.”

Ron sat up straighter. This was starting to sound awful. 

“Please tell me he didn't die from the abuse.”

Hermione sighed. “It's not clear exactly what caused the accident. But one day the whole house was burnt to a crisp. It was a magical fire, and his muggle relatives – ”

“Wait a second there! He grew up with muggles?”

“Yes, don't interrupt. I'll get there in a moment. As I was saying, his muggle relatives were strung up with all three of their heads missing. Apparently they died in the most gruesome manner. There wasn't much left of their bodies after the fire, and hardly anything left of _him_ either. Just an arm, some hair, scraps of clothing and such. Unfortunately, the magical fire wasn't entirely put out, because the muggles didn't know better. In a week or so after the accident, it grew again and burnt out the whole street and four more streets down.”

Ron grimaced.

“Back to your question, yes he grew up with muggles. The worst sort seeing as they abused him. Mrs. Figg said our first headmaster put him there himself, and told her to watch over him. She never forgave herself for it – she always thought some Death Eaters killed him when she wasn't paying attention. So you see Ron, I'm having a very difficult time reconciling what we know of our bearded headmaster and a man who is able to leave a defenceless child to be abused by his relatives.”

“Well I'd say he's a bloody ass for doing that!”

“I won't disagree.” Hermione admitted.

“And so, what now, you came to Britain to mourn him? You said it yourself, there was just an arm and some hair left and Merlin knows where he was even buried. That bearded old man probably hid that as well.”

“I wasn't coming back to mourn him Ron, even though looking at Mrs. Figg's memories was harder than I thought. It's the magical fire bit that's spooked me out to be honest. I did a bit of investigative work with our spies here in Britain. A part of Surrey, where _he_ once lived, is now completely blocked off. A magical barrier was set up around the area and the accident was wiped from the minds of the muggles. This was on record in the ministry for some years and then when You-Know-Who came into power, this record was pulled out from the ministry. One of our spies at the Unspeakable department brought this matter up because she remembered reading the news and she was somehow lucky enough not to be _obliviated_.”

“Okay so it was covered up in the muggle world and then some time later covered up in our world. What does it all mean?”

“It means, Ron, that something is going on in that unplottable piece of land, that not just muggles but also wizards and witches have absolutely no access to.”

“You think the headquarters are there!” Ron exclaimed.

“If not the headquarters of You-Know-Who, then at least some major operations are being held there.”

“And you're going to send the rebels there.”

“No. _I'm_ going to go there.” Hermione said triumphantly. 

“Are you out of your mind?!” Ron hissed angrily.

“Not at all. I'm one of the best witches of our generation. And hardly anyone recognises me. I've snuck across the border from France so there's no record of me being here either. All our spies are recognisable in one way or other, they'll never pull this off. We need a reconnaissance before we can make any bigger move in the future.”

Ron groaned and placed his head in his hands. “Oh bloody hell. Merlin's shrivelled balls. Hermione!”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I have nothing to do with Merlin's shrivelled balls, but I am determined to go here.”

“You sure it's not just your dastardly curiosity? I bet you just want to figure out the mystery behind _his_ death.”

“It may be that as well.” She nodded thoughtfully.

“Oh please.” Ron rolled his eyes.

“I won't back down, Ron. Come on, you'll help me won't you?”

Ron sighed. He was good at strategy, he knew that. He'd help Hermione of course, he could never refuse her. But perhaps he could change her mind eventually.

The planning lasted almost half a year, he had to call on friends, and so did she. It was a challenge bringing in the resources they thought she might need. 

There was an upside to all this, Ron found. Staying in such close quarters led to inevitably closer romantic interactions, and if there were a lot of kisses and some intimate, pleasurable nights, Ron greedily took what he knew he didn't deserve. 

But now – now she was gone. 

He couldn't convince her not to go. He even pulled the “don't you love me” card, but in the end he knew her mind was made up.

She'd sent letters in quick succession every week, with information of her travels, attempting to find a weak spot in the magical barriers, and finally making her way in. Her letters were also interspersed with “I miss you”s and “I love you”s, and not for the first time, Ron wished heartily that he'd gone with her.

He took out her last letter a month before and read it again.

She'd been particularly excited, he could tell from her writing. 

_There are people here, Ron! And I don't mean You-Know-Who's cronies. There are real living people, mostly witches or wizards just minding their own daily business and I've seen even a couple of house elves! It's so odd, like a little village paradise amidst the darkness our society is steeped in. Most of the buildings here have been repaired and made into little cottages. I've tried to remain out of sight for now. Any interaction with the people here might sound the alarms. I have yet to ascertain how they would react to strangers so I shall tread carefully. But I grow tired of the bread and biscuits I've brought. I long for a hot meal. I miss you very much, Ron. Do give my regards to Ginny as well. I hope she's feeling better._

Ron caressed the letter tenderly, before folding it up with care and placing it in his breast pocket.

He hadn't even a tenth of the resources she'd prepared when she left, but he would be damned if that kept him away from Hermione.

Ginny was adamant that he not go.

“You might mess it up, Ron! Hermione could be hiding somewhere and unable to get out to post a muggle express.” She pleaded. “You know how it is, the mail's being tracked as well, she hasn't been very careful with the content, it could have been intercepted.”

It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before. The rebels had told him the same thing. 

Patience, they said. 

But he had a bad feeling lodged like a hard and cruelly sharp rock in the pit of his stomach.

He knew why Ginny was saying all that. She too had a sense that things had gone awry, but she feared losing him too – all these years they really only had each other. 

“Ginny,” Ron began, turning towards her and holding her hands in his. “I must go, it's Hermione. But you know they've set up the new secret route to France now. All the instructions Hermione has left are in the drawer. Go there and Charlie and Percy will find you.”

“No...” Ginny shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Come with me, Ron. Let's regroup and have a proper plan before rescuing Hermione.”

“If something happened to her... She may not last that long. I cannot lose her.” Ron said softly. “go and when I find her, we'll meet you in France.”

Ginny pulled her hands out of his grasp, letting them fall to her sides in resignation.

Outside, the deep claps of thunder sounded and the rain fell heavily upon the window panes.


	3. The Brave and the Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should really be doing my work but... Here's a new chapter! I've increased it to 5 chapters. I obviously have a problem writing short stories. The next chapter is almost done as well.

Ron shivered and pulled his coat tighter around himself. He'd taken to retracing Hermione's exact steps from their initial plan and also included the deviations she mentioned in her letters whenever an obstacle had cropped up. 

Unfortunately, travelling to Surrey was as hard as he expected. 

The tracker on his wand couldn't be removed successfully and he reluctantly left it behind. For while he had a few spares that once belonged to witches or wizards who died in the war, it simply wasn't the same.

The worst had to be his dratted flaming red hair had to be disguised and he could only keep a glamour up for so long, not with all the security checkpoints that washed away all glamours – a variant of the Thief's Downfall charm that Gringotts used.

He'd taken to dyeing his hair and beard the old-fashioned muggle way. It ended up being a nasty sort of murky reddish-brown but it was sufficiently different that he looked like any typical poor half-blood fool. 

Ron walked on foot most of the time, trying to keep to the oppressed muggle areas as far as he was able to. Even though the Death Eaters often went to muggle streets for some recreational torture, he was simply less likely to be recognised than if he were walking along wizarding streets. It was almost Samhain, or All Hallows Eve for the muggles, and the October chill was getting into his bones.

It took him many precious days but when he finally arrived at the location of the magical barrier, carefully mapped out in blue ink by Hermione on the duplicate chart, he was stunned to see the bustling commotion around the area.

He slipped into a deserted, run-down shop on the street and peered out of the broken window. 

Did Hermione not emphasise how hidden this place was? And yet there were so many people coming and going about this so-called 'ghost town'! This was definitely new. While Hermione mentioned people, she hadn't let on just how many there were. Unless...

Ron gritted his teeth as he tried to pushing down the rising panic in his chest, as he considered that the increased activity could somehow be related to Hermione's presence. 

He needed to get to her. 

Fast.

Determined, Ron continued to observe the groups passing through the barrier. As they walked over the line of the barrier, they disappeared from sight, confirming the general boundary that Ron and Hermione had initially drawn on the map using reports of unusual sightings. They looked like everyday wizards and witches, there was nothing unusual in their demeanour.

Except... 

He spied three groups of uniformed people entering the barrier. Unlike the rest, these looked coordinated. Without a vantage point, it was unlikely for him to make out what they were saying, however, it was clear that they carried important cargo: large, long black boxes levitated in the centre of each group as they passed through the barrier and returned empty-handed.

Ron chewed on his bottom lip. Whatever the cargo contained, it had to be important to You-Know-Who's side of the war. Even though technically, he had all but won the war in Britain. There were rumours abound that it was to France that he had set his sights upon now.

Ron crept out of the deserted shop and slowly inched his way closer to the group, hiding behind whatever object he could find. The invisibility charm he had cast was by no means foolproof in a post-war Dark Britain.

From his new location he could now see the leaders of each group – with an extra silver piping to their black robes. He watched carefully as the next group approached the barrier with another black box of cargo and then he saw it.

The leader held a tiny device to the barrier, before the rest of the group were able to enter. So then they were not usual visitors – they did not have access the way the normal-looking wizards and witches had. Ron stealthily moved forward, hoping to catch the tail end of the group and walk through the barrier at the same time.

However, just as the last of the group disappeared through the barrier, two individuals suddenly stumbled out in front of him, shocking Ron into ducking behind a pole.

“What was that?”

“Don't change the subject!”

“No I heard something!”

“Shut up and listen to me!” The second man growled, both hands gripping at the collar of the first man. The second man was the leader, Ron noted, with the silver piping on his robes. 

“Let go!” The first man squirmed, attempting to escape the other but to no avail.

“What the fuck Gary, are you fucking crazy? You'll get us all killed!”

“Sir, I didn't do anything!” The man named Gary cried out.

“I saw you! What were you thinking, talking to him? Do you want the Dark Lord to personally come and kill you?”

“Come on, man, just chill! I just said hi!”

“Hi? You were fucking _winking_ at him! You know the damned rules, you idiot! Do not look at him, do not smile at him, do not fucking say hi to him. Fuck!”

The leader shoved Gary aside roughly. “Clear your fucking head and then get your stupid ass over. There are still five more to go.”

“Yes sir.” Gary replied sullenly, stalking off to lean against the wall of the deserted shop that Ron had just vacated.

Ron knew an opportunity when he saw one. After looking about and assuring himself that no one in the vicinity was paying any attention to the man, he nimbly toed his way back to the shop.

The man – Gary – was still grumbling to himself and kicking the loose stones that lay about him.

“Don't do this, don't do that. That's all that bastard Finn knows. Fucking coward. Must have drank some potion. Did he even see the guy? That face and body, those green eyes. That guy was made to be fucked.” 

Ron grimaced. He wasn't going to miss this Gary at all. The world could do without him.

Shooting a quick stunning spell, Ron moved forward to catch the man, before dragging him as quietly as he could through the door of the shop.

He laid him down on the dusty floor and proceeded to quickly remove all his clothes, wand and the brown satchel he carried. Flipping open the satchel, Ron checked carefully for any tracking or alarm devices. Satisfied that there were none, he reached in and found an identity card in a wallet. 

“Gary Dugmore. Auror. Huh! You went down fast, didn't you? What kind of auror are you?”

Lying naked save for his lime-green briefs on the floor, Gary's face grew alarmingly pale. 

Ron pulled out his expandable pouch and roughly stuffed in Gary's satchel, leaving the wand and his identity card on the floor, and then retrieving a flask from his pouch. Without a moment's hesitation, Ron roughly gripped the man's hair and pulled out several blond locks.

Gary's eyes teared from the pain but was helpless to make a single sound.

Depositing the extras into his pouch, Ron dropped a few strands of hair into the flash and watched as the Polyjuice potion turned into a rusty orange colour. 

“Not very tasty eh?” Ron wrinkled his nose as he removed the invisibility spell. “Thought you'd want to see my face. For catching me in the future and all, if you have a chance.” 

He quickly gulped down a third of the Polyjuice potion, shaking as he felt the change come over himself. The potion wasn't as fresh as he hoped, it was some time since he kept a batch from what he had brewed together with Hermione.

It tasted like a cup of cooking oil.

“Gross.” He said, voice a lot deeper but with a nasty greasy sort of quality to it now. Gary's face started twitching as he watched Ron turn into an exact copy of himself. 

“Don't think you'll have a chance though. You're a menace.” Ron added, before he steeled himself to cast _Avada Kedavra_ on the man, leaving his shocked expression from before permanently etched on his face.

Ron had lost track of just how many he had killed in the war, but this was the first time he'd killed since he graduated. 

His hand shook, but only a very little. 

Wasting no more time, he changed out of his own clothes into Gary's uniform robes, and slid the dead man's wand into his pocket. He then hauled the body over to the further corner of the shop, where there were fallen boxes, a thick layer of dust and dozen of cobwebs had formed.

By the time they found his body, Ron would have hopefully left the place with Hermione. 

He took a deep breath and left the shop, heading back to where the group stood to join them. The other member of the group were busy removing the ropes lashed onto the boxes. Ron reached over and tried to peep into one of the black boxes.

Before he could get any further than attempting to pry the lid which was magically sealed shut, he was rudely smacked across the head. 

“Not here, idiot!” One of the other members of the group hissed at him.

Ron nodded sheepishly, rubbing his head before moving away as others began to levitate the cargo.

Stepping in line formation with the rest, he tried to follow them as naturally as he could, hoping that he wasn't going to be kept out of the barrier for some reason.

His luck held out and he released the breath he had been holding as he passed through the barrier.

The scenery changed drastically once he was inside. It looked like a beautiful little town, with a neat path that they walked through. He could see some houses in the distance, right where he believed the magical fire must have occurred, but the group made a sudden right turn onto another that led into a dense growth of trees. 

He trudged along, clenching his fists as they walked further and further into the trees. Soon, he could not see any part of the lovely town. 

Ron prayed hard to magic, hoping that the Polyjuice potion would not run out yet. He should have drank more but he thought to save it in case. He would take another sip later when he had the chance. If he was caught out now... the chances of defeating the other nine members of the group were slim. Especially if they were all aurors, even ones as incompetent as Gary would be sufficiently trained to take him down. 

After some time had passed, the trees around the path became sparser, and the path opened up towards a large lake further down.

A lake.

_A lake?_

Ron certainly didn't remember any lake from his map... unless... There was one, but that meant he must have walked further away from the epicentre of where the magical fire that killed Harry Potter had been, than he initially thought. 

The leader raised his hands, and the group came to a halt some miles before they reached the lake. 

“Drop-off point.” The leader said.

It must have been a signal they were used to, as the other members of the group shifted around and out of the way of the black box, leaving one of the members to continue the levitation spell on the box.

The short-haired woman positioned herself behind the box and waved it forward with her wand, nodding to the leader as she passed.

“Wait.” The leader said.

“Sir?” The woman asked.

“Bridget, why don't you take a break. Gary must be simply _dying_ to volunteer for the role, since he is so very enthusiastic today. Aren't you, Gary?”

Ron tensed as the rest of the members turned to look at him and laugh nastily.

“Come on, Gary.”

“Yea Gary, while you're at it, why don't you throw yourself into the lake as well!”

The leader gestured to the box. “Get over here.”

Ron reluctantly stepped forward. 

“Take them to the lake.”

Ron raised his wand and cast the levitation spell, while Bridget fell back to join the rest of the group, smirking at him

“If you fuck this up, you answer to Lord Mulciber.”

The rest laughed again. Ron tried his best to repress a shiver. He'd heard about Mulciber, and the horrible things he had done. He'd be better off dead than meeting that Death Eater. It also meant Hermione's speculations were right. If Mulciber was involved, then there was a high level Death Eater interest in the area.

Of course his luck would eventually run out. What did he think? He was a Weasley! Obviously he would Polyjuice himself into being the outcast of the group.

Ron took a deep breath and set off towards the lake.

He wasn't even sure what he had to do. Dunk the thing in the lake? It seemed prudent not to ask. Ron was certain they all knew what needed to be done.

Could he perhaps make a run for it? He'd be far enough by then.

He continued towards the lake, levitating the box with Gary's wand, pondering his options. 

He felt a pang in his heart. This was the first spell that made him notice Hermione, even though their relationship did not begin on the most positive note. He could almost hear her saying 'not levioSA' next to his ear.

As he reached the lake, Ron set down the long black box on the ground before pointing the wand at it. He could move the lid and perhaps the contents of this cargo would clue him into what he had to do. It was very likely to contain weapons of some sort, if he had to make a guess.

What it had to do with a lake he had no idea.

If it seemed impossible then he would run. But that would certainly sound the alarms...

He took a deep breath, waved the wand and opened the large box. 

Once he had the lid placed on the ground, he shuffled forward to peer into it, ready to lift whatever objects or weapons were inside.

The first thing he saw was a face. 

Many faces.

Many dead bodies piled up in the box. 

Their glassy eyes turned to look at him.

Ron screamed and backed away in fright.

“Dead people,” he whimpered, “there's dead peopl-”

He was cut off as he fell into the lake, not realising that he had quickly reached the edge as he had backed away.

It was a sudden splash and before he knew it, Ron began sinking, the lake far deeper than he thought. 

It was murky and the light barely shone through. There were some floating fishes or underwater vegetation or seaweed of some sort, all around him. He kicked his legs hard, attempting to rise to the surface, when he felt something grab his leg.

“Ahhhhh!” Ron screamed, water getting into his lungs as he took in what he saw. 

They weren't fishes. They were limbs. Bodies.

Not plants but hair.

More dead people in the lake.

_Inferi!_

He kicked frantically, trying to dislodge the hand grabbing onto him. 

There were so many. So many.

_Too many!_

The undead. 

And he knew those faces.

Faces of those who fought in the war. Those who fought on the side of the light, the side of the good. 

His comrades. 

The rebels.

Too many, too many.

Tears streamed down his face, washed away in an instant by the rotting waters of the lake. 

Ron waved his hand desperately, shooting random wandless spells, hoping to get away as more hands began to grab onto him, all over him. His lungs were burning and he was slowly being dragged further and deeper into the lake.

As he continued to thrash about, he felt a pull at the back of his robe, before he was bodily dragged out of the water and slammed onto solid ground.

Ron coughed violently as he tried to expel the water from his lungs. He was soaking wet and shivering, but not just from the cold. 

_The inferi_... people he once knew, never laid to rest...

He tugged at his hair, now red again, and sobbed. A loud great heaving sob as his body shook.

“No no no no,” he whimpered, rocking his body and he hugged his knees close. 

His parents. What if his parents were also...

Ron was startled out of his crying by a warming and drying charm cast upon his person.

He tensed and looked up, feeling overwhelmed, to see a dark-haired man standing over him.

The man crouched down to Ron's level.

“Are you alright?” he asked, sounding concerned.

Ron, still confused and shaken, nodded his head slowly. He _was_ alright, if only just.

“Well, that's good to hear.” The man said, smiling, his brilliant emerald green eyes sparkling in the sun.


	4. The Captive and the Freed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes the blardy total chapter number increased again.

Ron opened his mouth to speak to the man. Before he could react further, he fell into a coughing fit.

With a gentle wave of a brown, rough-hewn wand, the man with the sparkling green eyes levitated the lid back onto the black box. Through the blurry film of tears, Ron could see the man eyeing the black box with outright distaste.

Ron continued to cough, attempting to expel the rest of the water from his lungs. Eventually his coughing subsided, and he raised his head again to thank his saviour, but the words were stuck in his throat.

There was something unearthly about this man. It wasn’t just his beautiful pair of eyes, so vibrant like the rolling, lush green hills his family used to live near when he was a young boy.

Handsome features, and a wild black nest of hair. 

Very handsome indeed. More importantly, the man looked _alive_.

Ron had simply not seen anyone quite so radiant with health since the war.

Ron stared at him dumbly.

“Hello, what's your name?” The soft tenor voice asked.

“Ron.” He replied, and immediately cursed inwardly. He was caught off guard. It was one of the first things he learned – never to reveal his true identity. And yet, Ron knew the shock from the _inferi_ was still too fresh. His mind was now more vulnerable than ever before.

The man smiled sympathetically at him. “You must be new here. They've been bullying you, haven't they? The new ones should not deal with these boxes...”

“Who are you?” Ron blurted out in fear. “Are you part of th... I mean th-the team?” He had to be a Death Eater, or someone involved in these operations... Right?

Ron looked back fearfully at the lake, wondering why the inferi had stopped their attacks. Was it because of the boundary between the water and land? Or was it because of this man?

“No, I'm not part of your team, I am simply a resident of the town. Don’t worry. I will not speak ill of you to your superior.” The man said kindly.

Ron nodded but, in that instant, he jerked back in shock. 

At the puddle by his feet, he noticed his reflection and the image of bright red hair reflecting off the water clued him into what happened.

The Polyjuice potion had worn off. 

So quickly! Oh Circe. He should really have brewed a fresh batch. He was so woefully unprepared.

He looked back at the other man, panic rising by the second. The Polyjuice potion must have somehow counteracted against the muggle hair dye he used. Not only had he revealed his name, he was now appearing completely undisguised, his signature Weasley hair and freckles, and unmistakable blue eyes would probably clue this man into who he was. After all, the Weasleys were famous rebels.

To his surprise, the man simply smiled, took his coat off and put it across Ron’s shoulders.

“Wait here,” the man said, and headed back to the group.

Ron stunned, stared after the man before he came to his senses. He quickly crawled up and hid behind one of the trees, while stretching his head out as far as he dared to try and catch a glimpse of what’s happening. 

He couldn’t hear anything from where he stood, but he could clearly see the hunched shoulders and back of the group leader – Finn was his name, if Ron remembered it correctly – as the black-haired man appeared to be reprimanding him.

After a while, the black-haired man dismisses the whole group.

This was no ordinary man… he claimed to be a resident of the town but he could very well be lying. Everyone lied these days, there was no other way to survive. 

Ron debated running away, but when he lifted his head, he noticed the man staring right back at him, a smile on his face as he walked in Ron’s direction.

Ron’s heart was beating rapidly. Even though it was a blessing that the group of men never sent someone to check on him because the game would have been up once the Polyjuice potion had worn off. He wouldn’t have known what to do then.

The bigger question remained – who was this man who helped him? He had to be a high-ranking Death Eater, why else would the group follow his orders? 

Desperation gripped him. He could run now, but it was altogether likely that the alarms would have sounded before he safely left the place. And Hermione was depending on him. He could hold on, observe and see how far he could push having his presence here, at least long enough to find Hermione.

The man walked slowly, unthreateningly towards Ron, smiling gently as he saw the red-head hiding behind the tree in an apprehensive manner.

“They’re gone now. They have one clear rule, and that’s not to mess with the town residents.” The man explained.

Ron considered this. It was plausible. If the Dark forces had created this town, hidden from most people, the residents might also be protected from threats. If so, would this man be able to help Ron find Hermione?

“What’s your name?” Ron blurted out.

“I’m known around here as Mr. Happe.” The man replied. 

Ron barely stopped himself from laughing aloud. It was never good for his own health to laugh at others’ names – Draco Malfoy beat that into him early on.

But still, it sounded like a joke, Ron just could not take it seriously. Until it hit him that it had to be an alias, just as he should have also given his own if things had gone according to plan. But they never did. 

“Now come along, let's get you warmed up or you're liable to catch a cold.” Mr. Happe said.

Ron hesitated for a moment and then decided to follow. This was no time to berate himself. And perhaps, if he treaded very carefully, he might get some clues on how to find Hermione.

***

It wasn’t long before they came to the heart of the town. There were many streets with rows and rows of houses, all of them large, neat. They appeared rather muggle-looking, which struck Ron as very odd. He’d thought You-Know-Who abhorred all things muggle.

Perhaps this unplottable town was truly an exception in more ways than one.

It was as Ron walked further along the street that he realised something odd. The houses were almost unerring in how similar they were. Too manicured, too neatly aligned. Like perfectly arranged doll houses. 

As they walked along, they came across others. Happy-looking people, ones who looked as if they were never touched by war. Far too normal, far too happy. 

“Hello Mr. Happe” they said, “how are you today?”

And Hermione was right, there were definitely a couple of house elves.

“Mr. Happe, sir!”

Ron’s sense of unease spiked. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. There was something unsettling about this town. Something that spoke of artifice. He dearly hoped he hadn't bitten off more than he could chew. Maybe Hermione was wrong, maybe this wasn't a Death Eater hideout but some sort of model village experiment? A town kept untouched by the ravages of war.

Or was it hiding something more? For that was what drove Hermione to investigate.

And if experience taught Ron anything, in times of war, the more peaceful a place was on the surface, the darker the things it hid.

They eventually stopped outside one of the houses, though if Ron thought about it, he wouldn’t be able to find it again because it looked just the same as all the rest. He entered the house after the black-haired man, who Ron noted, had not even bothered to lock his door.

Ron followed the man into the hallway, where he allowed his coat (or rather, the one he stole from Dugmore) to be taken from him but held onto his expandable pouch. 

“So, Ron, how about a hot cup of tea?”

“Sure, uh. Thanks.”

Before it could descend into an awkward silence, the man gave Ron an enigmatic smile and led him into the living area. 

“Have a seat, it will be ready in a few moments.”

Ron nodded as he was passed a towel to wipe down the dampness still clinging to him.

With Mr. Happe heading to the kitchen to boil the water, Ron took the opportunity to study the place. While the uniformed design of the houses threw him off, the unorthodox decorations of the living room made him feel even more ill at ease. 

All around the room, strewn across the table, scattered under the windowsill and upon the mantel above the fireplace were dolls of sorts. Ron had a minor shock when he realised that there was another doll on the couch next to him.

He tried not to shudder at its soulful look.

It was a doll with pale-heart shaped face and bubblegum pink hair. He didn't know why but he felt as if it was looking right into his very being.

Ron got up and walked over to the fireplace, staring more closely at three sculpted heads. They stood out from the rest because they were simply detached heads, while the rest were full body dolls and had clothing. 

On closer look, the three heads appeared to be smoother and softer than the porcelain, clay, stone or metal sculptures he was used to seeing.

Ron slowly lifted a finger and gave the cheek of one of the heads a light touch. Indeed, it was soft yet textured and slightly bumpy the way skin felt, and oddly warm to the touch. He picked at a lock of hair. It felt like real human hair and also perfectly stuck to the scalp. In fact, Ron decided they were indeed doll heads – ones that were so lifelike as to be easily mistaken as real people. 

Full of colour and vibrancy down to the finest details.

With a morbid fascination gripping him, Ron studied the three heads carefully. Despite feeling disturbed, he was nevertheless drawn in by them. Perhaps they were modelled after someone Mr. Happe knew. 

The three heads were odd subjects to choose as art, and right here on the mantel piece too. The one on the left was rather large and had a distinctly unhealthy, excessively overweight look. Rather like a whale, if not for the huge bushy moustache atop its upper lip. The one in the middle stood in vast contrast to the first, being of a long horse-like face and pinched expression. It was decidedly female. And on the right, one that looked like a miniature version of the first, though with eyes that resembled the middle head. In all three expressions were different degrees of fear. 

Ron lifted one of the heads to reveal a charred black base.

“Absolutely vile, aren't they?” A voice came from his right. Ron nearly jumped. 

When had the man come so close?

“Er.” he said hesitantly. “They are very well-made.”

“But ugly.” The man added.

How was Ron to respond? What if they were modelled after his family or friends or something? Some people freely insulted their own family but took offense when others did the same. 

“Well… I er. Beauty in the eyes of beholder or something like that.” Ron muttered.

Mr. Happe laughed. 

“Be honest, they are disgusting. They were my first works,” the man mused, “I wasn't very good at it then. These days I prefer a more subtle touch. Even so, just as there are monsters in men, there is wonder in horror and beauty in abomination, is there not?”

Ron did not know what to say to that.

“You sculpt?” Ron asked instead. “You're an artist?”

“Oh no, of course not! I don’t consider myself an artist.” Mr. Happe laughed. “I make dolls as a hobby more than anything else. I have so much time on my hands.” 

“Well, I'd say that was very impressive if it was your first work!” Ron exclaimed, gesturing to the three heads.

“Thank you. I shall accept the compliment.” Mr. Happe smiled heartily. “I am proud of them despite the monstrous expressions. They turned out alright even though the topic of study left something to be desired. A good-looking subject makes a big difference to the doll I make.” 

He turned to look at Ron directly, his green eyes sparkling. 

“I'd be happy to make a doll of _you_.” 

Ron blushed red from the attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. Happe is a real surname, you can find it on the ancestry site where there are a number of meanings which I find relevant to the fic. There's also a hilarious urban dictionary meaning.


	5. The Host and the Guest

Mr. Happe looked at Ron’s flaming red face and gave a small smile, his green eyes half-lidded.

He walked away, his messy black hair fluttering softly from the movement, and sat on an adjacent chair, one that looked well-worn and used. 

“Come sit with me.” He said, reaching out and filling the cups with piping hot tea. 

Ron observed that his sleeves were rolled up as he handled the tea, exposing corded forearms. No Dark Mark, which Ron was relieved to see. 

However, the man’s hand and arm were silver, continuing up beyond what his rolled-up sleeves exposed. 

It was odd and yet gave Mr. Happe an even more mysterious feel.

“Your arm…” Ron began.

“Ah this.” Mr. Happe said, looking down at his own arm. “It was an unfortunate incident, but I expect those would be common experiences for yourself, wouldn’t they?”

He glanced at Ron’s battle-scarred arms. 

Ron pursed his lips. His scars told a story – one that was not of victory but of defeat.

“So, what brings you here?” The man looked at him knowingly.

Ron was tempted to tell Mr. Happe that he was here to find Hermione but held himself back. Trust did not come easy to him.

“Erm. Just working for a bit of coin.” he said as casually as he could muster.

The man hummed, his eyes telling Ron that he didn't buy the story, and yet he did not push Ron any further.

Warily, Ron sat back on the couch and took a sip of tea from the cup placed on the coffee table. 

He stole glances at the pink-haired doll again. 

He was sorely tempted to cover it up with a cushion, it made him feel too restless and disturbed. But it would be rude to do so. Mr. Happe must have liked the doll to put it on the couch…

“What's it like out there?” The man asked.

“Huh?” Ron said, pulled out of his daze from looking at the doll.

“I'm hardly ever been out of this town. I wonder what it's like out there?”

“Why don't you go out more then?” Ron dared to ask.

Mr. Happe shrugged. “I'm delicate, I'd get hurt if I leave.” Though the way he said it showed clearly that he didn't believe in that statement.

“So you don't leave...? Wait. Really? You've never left this town? Or-or village or whatever?”

The man gave his mouth a quirk. “Once or twice, I imagine.”

 _Like a doll in a doll house,_ Ron thought. With every new snippet of information revealed, he was becoming more and more unsettled by this place.

Mr. Happe’s green eyes were too piercing to look into, so Ron shifted his gaze to Mr. Happe’s mouth area. The man was very handsome. Maybe Hermione met this man and was so enamoured of him that she conveniently forgot about Ron...

No! Ron shook his head mentally. What was he thinking? All the anxiety and panic must have gotten to him. He shouldn't be letting his insecurities surface now.

“Do you not uh, know what's going on outside?”

“Well, will you tell me? None of us here are allowed to leave.”

Ron grimaced. His guess must have been right. This was some odd little game the Death Eaters were playing. Locking people up in this pretense of happiness and peace. It was illogical, but everyone knew that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was far from being sane. He felt rather sorry for this man.

What could he say though? That death and destruction was commonplace outside of their happy bubble? He settled for a half-truth.

“It’s not great out there, but it’ll get better.”

Ron licked his chapped lips and took a mouthful of tea. 

“So uh, where did you study then? Surely you studied at Hogwarts?”

The man frowned, looking suddenly less calm than before. “No. I had a teacher, a mentor of sorts. He taught me from when I was ten.”

“You chose not to go to Hogwarts?” Ron observed him more carefully. Perhaps he was as affected as them by the rise of Voldemort and chose to be home-schooled as many of the rest did before they eventually fled Britain. He certainly looked younger than Ron, with his smooth and unblemished skin.

“There was no need for Hogwarts.” Mr. Happe said firmly. “He taught me everything, everything I could possibly know.”

“Wait... did I get this right? He taught you everything from potions to charms to history of magic?”

The man nodded.

“Wow. That’s one hell of a tutor.” Ron remarked, remembering how the professors at Hogwarts seemed to teach only one subject each, and some even sucked at that singular course they taught. Case in point, Binns.

“I've only ever had him... my only true family. I wasn't always with him, lived with a bunch of very nasty people at first. He saved me, you know, the first lesson he taught me was how to live, and then how to fight back against my oppressors. And then everything that came after.” The man took a deep breath. “Sorry, I don't usually say so much. I guess I just really miss him.”

“Is he...?”

“No no he's still alive,” the man laughs, “and is likely to be so for a very long time.”

“Then...”

“He's just always away these days, gone off on business and such. I miss him very much. Do you know the feeling? The one where you yearn for a person so much that it's almost crippling.”

Perhaps it was the atmosphere then, or that the man had opened up to Ron, or the compelling pair of eyes so much like two cut emeralds set in the man's face, but he could not help the next words that left his mouth.

“I know it, I really do. Please,” Ron pleaded, leaning forward, “I'm actually here to look for someone very important to me. She's gone missing and I'd been trying to find her. Please, I'm so worried and I don't know what to do.” His voice started wobbling towards the end.

The dark-haired man patted his arm sympathetically. “I like you. You seem like you'll be a good friend. I'll do my best to help you find her, Ronald. I'm good at finding people. Just let me know a little bit more about her, and what she looks like.”

“You will?” Ron cried in relief, breath leaving his body as he felt the bone deep exhaustion of the past few days. “Thank you, thank you!” His neck prickled for some reason, his mind telling him that he'd missed something important, but he was overwhelmed by the feeling of relief, of not being _alone_ in this, that he'd forgotten his unease in an instant.

Mr. Happe smiled encouragingly.

“Well, her name is H- Helen. She’s got blonde hair and hazel eyes and uh. She’s a very intellectual person.”

“Helen Garde?” The man asked.

“Yes!” Ron exclaimed. Then paused and look apprehensively at Mr. Happe. “How do you…”

“She came by more than a month back, said she got lost and needed a place to stay. I let her have one of the room upstairs, though she’s no longer occupying it since some weeks ago.”

Ron slumped in shock. Truly? Was this coincidence or...? And was it possible that Hermione was alright? Did he come all this way for nothing and her next muggle letter was actually on route to him?

“Would you like to look at the room she stayed in? Perhaps she left something there that could give a clue?” Happe offered.

Ron sat up and felt hope once again. “Please.” He said.

Mr. Happe nodded and with a simple wave of his wand, he non-verbally sent the tea set floating into the kitchen. He rose from his seat gracefully.

“Follow me.”

Ron grabbed his expandable pouch and climbed up the stairs after the man. The stairs creaked. Old and worn despite the well-maintained carpet. The shifting shadows cast upon Happe’s back made him feel a sense of foreboding. Surely, Mr. Happe would not attack him _now_ , would he? Ron treaded carefully, his hand gripping tightly onto his wand tucked in his pocket.

The shadows deepened as they made their way to a narrow and dimly lit corridor. 

Mr. Happe walked up to the first room and opened it. 

“This is where she stayed for a few nights.”

Ron entered the room after the man, feeling apprehensive of what he might find. 

“ _Lumos._ ”

The bedroom was lit up in the blue glow, but it was clear at first glance that nothing was left here. It was neat and looked for all intents and purposes to be unoccupied. Ron knelt down and checked below the bed. He rifled through the drawers for some paper or parchment. He opened and checked the closet.

Nothing.

“Did she tell you where she was going after?”

Mr. Happe shrugged. “I didn’t pry much. She did reveal that she was looking for a person."

 _Harry Potter._ Ron thought.

“Well we can continue to do this tomorrow in the daylight. It's getting late and it's never good to be up and about late. You're probably tired, after all.”

Ron nodded his head reluctantly. He certainly saw the wisdom in getting some rest, but he was also eager to find Hermione.

It seemed like the man could tell what he was thinking and he patted Ron on the shoulder. “These things take longer than you expect. All in good time.”

Mr. Happe opened one of the drawers and pulled out a couple of candles which he lit, casting the room in a warm, yellow light. Suddenly it looked much more welcoming. Ron could appreciate now how beautifully the room was decorated with its eggshell blue bed sheets and soft white curtains.

“You may stay here if you like. Get yourself a warm bath and a good night's rest.”

“Okay. I don't know how to thank you for all you've done for me.”

The man turned around with that enigmatic smile of his again. “It is no trouble. I'm lonely and would always be happy to assist a friend. Let me help you. And you'll be my friend, won't you?”

Ron smiled back gratefully. 

And in the end, the warm bath truly did him good, relaxed his muscles and put him in a state of near-complacency. Something he hadn't felt in years.

“It must be the air here,” he murmured. This one place in Britain untouched by the war.

Hidden away from prying eyes to protect… to protect something.

A weapon. Some sort of knowledge perhaps?

Ron gasped and stopped in his tracks, stumbling as he hit one of the bed corners. He had suddenly remembered something extremely important.

He whipped out his wand and cast a direction spell, walking to North-East of the room and started desperately placing his hands along the wall. Hermione had told him of a spell in passing, one where she could hide useful information in a place with a symbol that he had since memorised. For a moment there he had completely forgotten about it.

Excited, Ron concentrated as hard as he could to feel for Hermione’s familiar magical signature.

And, there.

There it was. 

With a quick snap of his wrist Ron used his wand to draw out the Kenaz rune symbol lightly on the wall. A soft hum and a quick flash of light later, a small worn out book fell into his hands. It was a red paper notebook, torn and faded with time and use. There was indeed something she had left for him here. She must have known he would come to find her.

Opening the notebook to the first page, Ron saw two words scribbled in childish, messy handwriting.

_Harry’s Diary._

His hands shook in feverish anticipation. How did she…

Was this real? Was this truly Harry Potter’s diary? Had Hermione found something that could help the rebels?

He quickly flipped through the rest of the pages but they were empty.

In disbelief, Ron flipped through it again and again, from back to front, and front to back.

And again.

Still, there was nothing but lines and lines and endless lines. He felt his mood plummet instantly. All the energy drained from him in a single moment. Ron clutched the book to his stomach and shook. Tears began to fall from his eyes as he wept openly.

It felt as if bands were tightening around his heart, and it _hurt_. Everything _hurt_.

Ron pounded his chest as he sobbed.

Why was nothing going right? What was the point of this useless book if…

Ron looked at the book in his hands again.

No. 

Hermione would not bother to hide it if it were merely blank. 

Ron wiped his tears and snot away and sat up straight again. He took a deep breath to gather himself. When his breathing returned to normal, he tried a couple of spells to reveal the words, but nothing happened. He sighed and sat at the edge of the bed, considering. Perhaps, he was too tired. He could certainly try again tomorrow. He mustn’t give up. 

He couldn’t. 

Here was a clue, the first sign of Hermione since he began his journey. She was a brilliant witch, the best he had ever known. And now it was up to him to figure out what happened.

Ron took another deep breath, then stood up and carefully set the diary on the bedside table for closer study in the morning. He turned back to the bed and pulled back the covers before sinking into the soft mattress with a groan. 

There were a couple of fluffy throw cushions and another doll. Though this one was quite a lot larger than the rest he had seen so far. A doll resembling an excessively hairy, large man with sad-looking beady black eyes and dressed in a ratty brown overcoat. It certainly looked rather old and scruffy, a thick belt around its rotund figure and a huge head of dreadfully tangled hair to match its equally large beard.

It looked so sad that Ron could not help but pat it on its coarse hairy head and then feeling rather silly after.

He picked it up and placed it gently on the bedside table where the diary rested on, and then blew out the candles to bathe the room in darkness.


End file.
